


San's Brain on Finals

by San



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Gen, Mary Sue, Meta, POV Female Character, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/San/pseuds/San
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfic author and her subject get sucked into a white room -- is it Hell, or just madness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	San's Brain on Finals

"Well, how did we get here, then?"

"I don't _know_! Do you think I'm enjoying this?"

"Aren't you?" he leered at me, and I felt my hand ball up into a fist. I resisted the temptation to plant that fist in the center of his perfect chin.

"No, I'm not. First of all, I don't _know_ you, secondly I don't write Mary Sues or Mary Janes or whatever they are and thirdly Hi Opal."

He blinked at me, and I counted ten.

"Hi Opal?" He said, weakly, and then I saw dismay cross his face.

"Christ. Don't tell me this is slash," he moaned, and I fought back a giggle.

"Not for you. You weren't even a main character - just the supportive junky friend," I answered with a snort.

He rolled his eyes.

"Great. Is that really what you lot think of me?"

I shrugged.

"It's a useful hook for the character I've loosely based on you, John," I answered. "Like I said, I don't know _you_. I think you're beyond that now - as much as any addict ever is - but I didn't set the story _now_. After all, if it were _now_ I'd have to deal with the rumors of the band getting back together."

"They're not rumors," he said sullenly, "not exactly, anyway."

"Forgive me," I answered, "but I'll believe it when I see it."

"You're not _going_ to see it if we don't get back there!" he snapped, and I flinched despite myself.

"I _knew_ I never wanted you angry with me," I muttered, and was surprised to find he looked contrite.

"You got us in to this stupid situation."

"Yes, but not on purpose! Trust me. I've got a ten-page paper due first thing in the morning _and_ a final exam. The last thing I was planning on doing was spending my evening with a spoiled brat of a pop star. I don't even know where here is," I finished, waving my hand in the air to indicate the room around us.

I took a sharper look at the room and sighed. "Damn it."

"What?"

"Oh, just that I've evidently forgotten to describe our surroundings," I said, looking at the unadorned white walls on all sides of us. "Now I suppose we're in Camus' Hell - just the two of us and no fucking door."

He looked around, surprised, then said, "No, there's a door over in that corner - it's just hard to see. Problem with your writing?"

"I'm constantly being told I need to describe rooms and such better - my characters tend to float around in 'white rooms.'"

"Hm," he said, bringing one hand up to scratch at the top of his head.

"Oh," I laughed, "now there's a characteristic JT gesture."

He paused, the hand still on top of his head, and looked at me.

"It's not funny," he said as I laughed harder.

"So, chalk it up to hysteria," I said, trying to catch my breath.

He scowled, and got up from the chair to pace the room.

"Why don't you try the door, then, if my company's so troublesome?"

He turned and looked at me, the expression on his face shifting from irritated to somber.

"I'm afraid of what I might find," he answered.

"Honestly, John, Nick's not lurking on the other side of that door lusting after you. I promise, the world might be a little weird and your relationships might be different than the reality, but _you_ were not my main character."

"Who was, then?" he asked, curious despite himself, "and who's Opal?"

"Nick and Andy," I answered after a moment's hesitation, "and Opal...well, it's a joke from another message board I hang about on."

He blinked at me, and I bit my lips as I recognized what my best friend had dubbed 'the classic JT "duh" look'.

"Nick and...Andy? You mean Warhol, right?" he squeaked out, and I had to shake my head because I just couldn't speak.

He sat back down in the chair, heavily.

"It was meant as a joke, John. Honestly - it isn't any easier for me to imagine than it is for you, I think," I hesitated, then reached out and gently touched his forearm.

"Now I'm _really_ afraid of what I'm going to find on the other side of that door," he said, bemused, as I retracted my hand.

"Well...it was sort of based on the typical Hollywood 'I hate you so much I must love you' premise. I really didn't mean it seriously."

We sat in silence for a moment; there really didn't seem much to say after that.

"I'm sorry," I finally said, "I really didn't mean for this to happen."

"It's okay," he answered. "I guess I sort of needed the break anyway."

" _I_ didn't. Or maybe I did. Maybe this isn't real and I've just snapped from the stress of finals."

He cocked his head at me.

"Forgive me, but you seem a little old to be worrying about finals."

"Gee, thanks," I said sourly, "I've gone back to school after flunking out the first round."

"I think about it sometimes," he said, "but overall I'm pretty content with things."

"You could use a few acting lessons," I said, then winced. "Sorry."

"No," he said, "you're probably right. And if I _cared_ about the films I suppose I might take some."

"Yes, well," I said, "I'm not sure how seriously you can take some of what you've done. I mean, 'The Flintstones?'"

He shrugged, fidgeting.

"It was a gig."

"You should have a pack of cigarettes on you, John," I said, dryly.

His eyes narrowed.

"How did you know that was what I wanted?"

"I know smokers. I used to _be_ a smoker. It wasn't that hard to figure out."

"Oh," he said, patting down his pockets and hunting up a pack and a lighter. I sighed as he lit up.

"What?"

"Oh, I was just relieved that you had a lighter. I was afraid this really was Hell, and you weren't going to have a lighter."

He looked at the piece of metal in his hand and shrugged, setting it on the table.

"Do you believe in Hell?" he asked me, exhaling a long stream of blue-grey smoke.

"Not really," I said. "Not the way most Christians do, anyway. Some days I don't believe in an afterlife at all. You?"

"Probably. Habit, I guess, of believing. But I doubt this would be it, anyway."

"No?"

He shrugged, then shook his head.

"I guess I imagine Hell with fire, brimstone, devils...you know, the whole works."

"I thought the Church said Hell was living without God's grace or something like that."

"I wouldn't know," he answered, "I lost touch with the Church a while ago."

We sighed, and it was my turn to get up and pace. I found myself standing in front of the door, which looked as though it had been lightly sketched into the wall with a hard pencil. I brought my hand up to rest on the knob.

"So," he said, and I looked over my shoulder to find him watching me intently, "go ahead and open it."

"And damn the torpedoes?"

"We can't stay in here forever."

"No."

I twisted the knob, and gave the door a push.


End file.
